Ideal you — lost in the night of a world that no longer is,
A world that had thought in tales, and spoke in verses—
Oh, I see you. I hear you. I reflect on you — early sweet news.
You come from a sky with different paradise, gods, and stars.
Venus, you are a warm statue with a shiny and unmoved eye.
You have nice bosoms, like a poet-king's theory.
You were the divine making of a woman's beauty —
Of a woman that even now I see once more that she's still pretty.
Raphael, lost in dreams — like into a night full of stars —
He was a soul under the influence of eternal spring, and of ideas.
He saw you, and he dreamed of the paradise with scented ground.
He saw you as the Queen with your angels, how to the sky you ascend.
And he painted Madonna on an empty canvas as a Goddess.
With a gentle and virginal smile, with a tiara full of stars,
With angelic face — yet a woman with a pale face and blond features,
Since the woman is the model for the angels of the clear skies.
So, I am lost in the night of a life of poetry. And I imagine
That I saw you barren woman: without heart, without passion.
And I projected you as an angel: gentle, like you were on the enchantment's day.
Similar to the time when in a man's harsh life giggles luck's ray.
I saw your pale face — from a disgusting drinking bout —
And I saw on your purple lips the bite-mark of you being un-chaste.
And cruel woman you, I've thrown at you the white veil of poetry.
And to your pallor, I gave it the big smile of integrity.
I've given you pale features that surround you with attraction,
And the head of a gifted angel — the best one;
I created a symphony from a giggle. I shaped a saint from a demon.
I made from your dirty quick look: the eye of the aurora at the crack-of-dawn.
But now the veil falls, cruel woman, you. I wake up from dry dreams.
My head wakes up to reason, because of the coldness of your lips.
And I look at you, demon. And my cold and ruined affection,
It shows me how to stare at you with aversion.
You seem to me like a priestess of Bacchus
That stole from a virgin, the green myrrh of a sufferer for a cause
— A maiden who was sacred as a prayer —
While, the heart of the priestess is erratic, like a lengthy fever.
Oh, how Raphael has shaped Madonna as a Goddess
— With her pure virginal smile with a starry headdress —
I made a goddess from a weak woman,
Who has a cold and empty heart, and who is with a heart full of poison.
Do you cry, young woman? With a teary and imploring eye
I ask you to break and shatter my traitor heart right away.
I fall at your feet and I kiss your hand. I look in your deep as the sea, sad eye.
And I ask it, if you can forgive me.
Wipe down your eyes, and stop crying. My accusation was vicious.
It has been cruel and wrong. It had no backing. And it was baseless.
Soul you, even if you are a demon: through love you are blessed.
And I love this demon with big eyes and dark hair, and all the rest.
(1870,15th of April)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem